


Looking outward together

by Carabesh



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Discussion of Abortion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluffy (kind of), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Not Beta Read, but only indirect, then it turned into this, this was supposed to be short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 09:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23469406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carabesh/pseuds/Carabesh
Summary: „I'm not carrying you, when you pass out from malnutrition.“ Geralt says.Geralt carries him. Frantic and fearful.ORJaskier gets injured and Geralt seeks a healer. The healer informs them about something else. It gets worse before it gets better.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 466





	Looking outward together

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a shortened adaption of this phrase:
> 
> Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction. - Antoine de Saint Exupéry, Terre des Hommes (1939)

Geralt is quite good at teasing, Jaskier knows that as he prods at the small bulge in his abdomen. The witcher pinches him into the warm flesh and tells him to eat less. But it isn't simple belly fat, it is firm,yet strangely tender, the muscle clearly there and not hidden. Jaskier bats his hand away and Geralt smirks rascally.  
„Too much sweets,“ Geralt says. „You have a sweet tooth.“  
But Jaskier hasn't eaten any in a long time. Between the constant walking and the stays at the inns, he eats rather little.  
„Maybe your metabolism is finally adapting to your age.“  
Jaskier snorts. „I'm barely 30!“  
Still, Jaskier restricts himself to a stricter diet. Smaller and fewer meals.  
„I'm not carrying you, when you pass out from malnutrition.“ Geralt says.

Geralt carries him. Frantic and fearful. He kicks the door of the local healer in and scares her beyond believe when she sees him.  
Geralt is panting from the straining run, Jaskier is wheezing from the injuries scattered across his arms and chest. Both are covered in blood. Partly Geralts, mostly from the hideous beast he was sent out to slay. But also so much blood from Jaskier; on his chest piece, on his arms, on his hands.  
“Help him!” he barks at the stunned healer. She flinches for a second, then she steps closer. A quick examination of the bard in Geralts arms. She points over to her working table.  
“Lay him there, I will get my tools and salves.” she scurries away to a small room behind her counter. Geralt doesn't notice, instead choosing to focus on Jaskier and how to put him on the table without rustling him in any unnecessary way. Regardless he moans in pain as Geralt slowly sets him on the table, he cradles his head for a moment and drops his own down; gently resting his forehead against Jaskiers and whispers a promise of reassurance to the unconscious man. Their moment doesn't last long. 

The healer returns, carrying an array of bottles and bandages which are dropped on a side table. She casts Geralt a look and points to the small stove in the corner of the shop.  
“I have preheated water. The pot on the stove. Bring it here.” she snaps her fingers as she points.  
“Also some of the cloth. Quickly.”  
Geralt listens. He will play errand-boy for Jaskiers healer.  
But after fetching the items he sits in the corner; brooding, grumbling, self-loathing. It is his fault the bard got hurt, or at least that's what he tells himself. No matter how he turns it.  
He didn't prevent Jaskier from following.  
He didn't took precaution when starting his hunt.  
He didn't notice how the beast set out to hunt them instead.  
And he reacted too late when the beast went for Jaskier instead of him. The easier prey.

The healer works assiduously and careful, cleaning the wounds, stitching and bandaging them. Geralt observes silently; taking notice of how she gently dabs the cloth over arms, face and chest. Her fingers dance over Jaskiers ribs and belly, examining them thoroughly and with a pondering look on her face. She is old, but not so old that one would call her that to her face. Her wrinkles and the folding of her forehead indicate that she has been working as a healer for a long time. Geralt lets out a small breath. Jaskier is in good hands with her.  
After what may have been hours, she takes a breath and faces Geralts judgmental stare.  
“He will recover.” she beckons him over. Geralt approaches her and Jaskier. The bards face is quiescent, no trace of heavy panting or painful gasps in his features. It settles the rage at himself in Geralt somewhat and graces him with a quiet calmness. His bard will live. He will be alright.  
The healer points at a bandaged gash on Jaskiers chest, that had been particularly bad; the main cause for his bleeding and pain.  
“This one will leave a scar, but it will heal with no problems if taken proper care of. The other cuts and scratches were too shallow to leave real lasting scars. The skin might take a while to regrow but they will fade away, eventually. No bones were harmed, but there is a rather large bruise on his right arm and shoulder,” she carefully lifts Jaskiers limp arm to show Geralt. A deep pinkish-red patch runs from the area around Jaskiers shoulder down towards his elbow.  
“I suppose he fell when he was attacked?”  
Geralt only nods, taking note of the colour and shape. The beast had slammed into the bard and knocked him into a tree. Before starting to claw at him. Geralt has to repress the memory for now, it only serves to increase his self-hate and won't help.  
“It will heal,” the healer gently puts Jaskiers arm back down, close to his body. “But it will be sensitive for the next week. He shouldn't strain his arm and naturally shouldn't lift or push anything heavy.”  
Geralt huffs. Jaskier will certainly be in a bad mood when he won't be able to play his lute.  
It will also shorten their income. Fuck. They could need the money, contracts were rare in the area.  
Whatever, he would find a solution.  
The important thing right now is that Jaskier recovers.

“Keep the wounds clean and apply this salve daily with new bandages.” she hands him a small satchel containing the items in question. Geralt takes it with a grateful nod and knots it to his belt. Only now does he notice that he is still covered in blood. It has dried and now clings to his skin and armor, while pieces have started to flake off. The healer hands him a fresh piece of cloth, dripping wet.  
“Clean yourself up. You shouldn't carry him like this, it would only undo my work.”  
He whispers her a thanks and starts to rub himself down.  
“Are you staying at the inn? Where is the resting place of you two?”  
Geralt stops in his motion. He had taken up the contract before ordering a room in the local inn. Another mistake in retrospective. He growled at his own shortness of foresight.  
“No, I was going to. Then this happened.” his mind immediately jumped to possible solutions to his problem. He couldn't let Jaskier sleep outside in this state.  
The healer looks at him indulgently but contemplating. “You two can stay here for the night,” she finally says. “I have a bed for cases that take longer. Your partner can sleep in there.”  
Geralts head peaks up. She had put a special emphasis on partner.  
Was his relationship with the bard this obvious?  
On the other hand, there aren't many tales of witchers caring for others. She probably connected the signs.  
“I don't have a second bed, but I can offer you a bedroll.”  
“I won't sleep tonight, but thank you for your kindness. And your service. You will be payed well after I get the money for my contract.” Geralt promises. 

The healer only gives him a penetrative look, as if she is waiting for something or some kind of response. Geralt can only stare back, the ignorance must have been clearly written on his face.  
“It was careless of you to let him come along on a hunt, witcher.” Geralt bows his head, she could have flung worse insults at him. This one was a fact, clearly proven by Jaskier laying between them.  
“It could have ended very badly for both of them,” Geralts head peaks up, confusion running through his mind. The healer lays her hand softly on Jaskiers abdomen.  
“Luckily both will survive this ordeal. The baby wasn't harmed, the gashes were focused on the chest, not the belly,” she babbled on but Geralt wasn't listening.  
A shocking realization runs through him. His blood running cold.  
“What?!” His voice is like cracking thunder in the room.  
The healer stops at his sudden outburst. Her hands jump up to her chest in a startled gesture. They stare at each other, but slowly the fear in her eyes warps into sympathy and understanding.  
“You didn't know,” she concludes quietly and gently pats Jaskiers head.  
“And I suppose neither did he.”  
Geralt only stares.  
“He is pregnant,” her hands caress through Jaskiers hair, a warm smile settling on her face.  
“You can tell it easily, when you know what to look for.”  
Geralt gawks at her, then at Jaskiers motionless form. Even with the new knowledge, nothing on the bard seemed out of place. The healer huffs.  
“His abdomen is obviously swollen. It could indicate regular weight gain from food, but this is different. It is firm to the touch, there is no fat from overindulgence. Do you see this dark line?” she points at Jaskiers pelvic area. Geralt comes closer and leans down.  
He sees it now; a brownish streak runs from Jaskiers pubic up to his navel. Geralt doesn't know if he would have noticed it, if she hadn't said so.  
“This line regularly appears on pregnant people in the first few months of the pregnancy. His papilla will also have darkened and most likely have been very sensitive in the last weeks.” Geralt nods. Jaskier had been complaining. And Geralt had used it to tease him during sex.  
The healer continues. Her hands prod at Jaskiers belly in slow and soft movements.  
“You can feel the enlarged womb through the abdominal wall, that is why it is so firm.”  
“How far along is he?” Geralt asks, still staring at everything she had pointed out. It was all there, so clearly and yet so cleverly hidden.  
“Hard to say,” she chimes.  
“From the state of the womb it seems likely he is already in his fourth month. But he is showing too little for being so far. Yet he is rather thin.”  
“He's been eating less than usual. He was trying to loose weight.”  
She nods in understanding.  
“I suppose you will see to that he will now eat properly.”  
“Of course.”  
“Good. Do you have more questions? If not I will ready the bed for him now and bring you the bedroll.”  
Geralt shakes his head, his gaze still locked on Jaskier. His face is calm in unconsciousness, he has no idea of what is currently growing in his body.  
And only now does Geralt realize it, too.

This is Jaskiers and his child. Their child. They created this. A new life.  
And he had been so neglectful that Jaskier got hurt, was so close to bleeding out.  
His carelessness could have killed both, Jaskier and the child.  
And he wouldn't even have known.  
Geralt wants to tear his own throat out in rage.  
But he swallows it down, it won't help now, won't help in the future.  
And Jaskier doesn't even know yet.  
How would he react?  
Does he even want this?  
He never talked of family. Either of past family or a future family. Geralt isn't sure if something like this even exist in his mind, if he is ready to settle like this. With him. And indisputable proof.  
This will change their relationship forever.  
Geralt breathes calmly, but his thoughts are racing and twisting, clawing and screaming. He doesn't let it show on the outside.

A door behind him creaks open and the healer reappears.  
“The bed is ready. Bring him over.” she orders, unaware of the storm in Geralts mind.  
Geralt carefully picks Jaskier up, even more than he usually does; handles him so gracefully as if he is made of crystal glass or the finest porcelain. He cradles him close to his chest, tries to envelop him as much as possible, even if Jaskier can't notice it right now; silently trying to make up for his misbehavior of the past weeks.  
They are always ruff with each other. They camp outside and traverse through storms and hostile environments on foot and on horseback. Their sex is fast, excruciating long and sometimes downright harsh with several orgasms for both. Their mood plays into their conversations, even if it happens to be foul. Nice and loving words are far and few between them. No proper surroundings for a child, for a family.  
Geralt sighs as he follows the healer into the small room on the side of the hut. It only contains the mentioned bed, an end table and a stool. Shelves with books and tinctures are stacked on the walls, a small window on the far side. Not much else. A room for healing work, not for proper living.  
He sets Jaskier down on the bed, carefully propping his head on the pillow. The healer hands him a blanket and Geralt spreads it over the bard, then she wishes him a good night with a whisper, that indicates she knows he won't have a good night.  
Geralt does not have a good night. He spends his time sitting on the stool and brooding about Jaskier, him – and life in general. And through the window, he can smell rain approaching.

Morning comes, shining its light through the window and tickling his nose. Geralt still ponders.  
Jaskier didn't stir during his sleep, the entire night had been silent and calm; only his thoughts had kept him company. He weighed and measured each idea and notion that presented itself in the past hours, yet they all came to the same conclusion – whatever would happen next in their lives, whatever choice they would take -

Geralt will let Jaskier choose. And he will comply willingly.

A soft knock echoes from the door and the healer enters, holding a steaming tankard and a bowl in her hands. Her gaze lingering on him and then on Jaskier. A small sigh escapes her.  
“You didn't sleep. I can see it in your eyes.”  
Geralt only nods.  
“He won't wake for at least a few hours. I hope you spent the time well.” He only hums an answer, mostly to himself. She hands him bowl and tankard before standing at the bedside and inspecting Jaskier. She pulls the blanket down and lets her skilled hands dance across the bandages and the bards face, lingering in certain places and above cuts and bruises. Her lips purse.  
“His body is starting to heal, but it will require a lot more of sleep. He won't wake for another few hours. It is possible he will develop a low fever, but this is nothing to worry about but part of the process. His sleep is not restless, a good sign.” Then she looks at Geralt.  
“Drink and eat. Tea and oat mush. I don't have much else.”  
“You've been hospitable enough already. Thank you.” She nods and turns to leave but before she can close the door behind her Geralt raises his voice.  
“If he won't have the child-”  
Her head peaks up but she doesn't face him.  
“- would you take care of it?”  
She is silent for a moment. Then she looks at him. Her face is neutral.  
“I heal and I aid. This is neither.  
If your life will come to a decision like this, I cannot help you anymore. You will have to find someone who can.”  
Geralt breathes deep, her stance is clear. His is not, and Jaskier is still unaware.  
He bites his lip before speaking again, his eyes lingering on the bard on the bed.  
“The life of a witcher is unfit for a family,” he starts. “It is dangerous and without a steady home. It is a life on the road and loaded with prejudice from others.”  
She casts a short glance at Jaskier before meeting his, when it does it is solemn and her voice carries a candid tone.  
“So is the life of a traveling bard, roaming from town to town and playing for the people. But you two have chosen, more or less; and now your decisions have brought you here. Whatever it is, you will have to face it together. And then, you will have to live with that.”  
Geralt sinks his head. Rarely had anything been more uncertain for him. Rarely had he felt so incapacitated.  
The door scrapes across the floor.  
“Inform me when he wakes up. I will prepare a broth for him.”  
“What is your name?”  
The door almost closes before he hears her answer.  
“My name is Ursa.”

It is past midday when Jaskier finally wakes. He groans and shifts under the blanket before opening his eyes. His gaze is confused as it roams around the unfamiliar room, until it lands on Geralt, but when it does he smiles a little.  
“Hey,” he huffs, his eyes glimmering with their usual spark but are still heavy and weak from exhaustion. “Good to see you, Geralt.”  
Geralt hums in answer. He helps Jaskier sitting up, propping his head against the board of the bed and hands him his half-empty tankard. Jaskier takes a sip and distorts his face.  
“Uhh, cold and bitter. You waited long for me to wake up?”  
“Only a few hours.” Geralts hand rests between the headboard and the bards neck, his thumb and fingers running slow and calming circles across the skin. Jaskier nods and closes his eyes for a moment, he lets out a deep sigh; losing himself in Geralts touch and simple presence. When he opens them again they wander around.  
“We aren't in an inn, or? The room is small.”  
“No,” Geralt stops the small movements of his hand. It lingers for a few seconds on the warm skin before he pulls it back.  
“The local healer has given us shelter for the night. We might have to leave soon.”  
“Have we already exhausted our welcome? We're insufferable.”  
Jaskier grins at him but it vanishes faster than usual. He takes another deep breath before he asks.  
“Was it very bad?” his look is apologetic, full of repentance.  
“You were bleeding a lot. Deep cuts on your chest. Your shoulder is bruised,” Jaskiers groans as he tries to lift his injured arm. He lets out a small gasp of pain.  
“You will have to take it slow. We will spent the next days at the inn.”  
“Looks like you won't have to listen to me playing the lute for some time.” Jaskier giggles.  
Geralt only grumbles. His eyes drift away. He had the entire night to prepare for the following talk, but he still doesn't know how to start. He is uncertain if he wants it to start, despite having no other choice.  
This could mean the end of their relationship, of their travels together; but it is unavoidable. A strange fear runs through him, of losing something he wasn't even sure about. His emotions ripped apart about an unfamiliar desire and deep regret. He felt lost on a path concealed in thick fog with a blank map. No compass to guide him, no certainty wherever he might look or turn.

“You're brooding, Geralt.” Jaskiers worried voice rips him out of his thoughts. His look is concerned and buries deep into Geralts soul. But his eyes are clear, life and strengths ever so slowly and gradually returning to him. Geralt hopes it will stay this way as he takes a deep breath and readies himself. For Jaskiers reaction; and whatever future he might choose.  
“There's something else. It's-,” he's bad at this. Always has been.  
He never finds the right words. Comforting words. Reassuring words. Instead he takes Jaskiers hand.  
“When the healer treated you, she-”  
Hard reality settles in. No other way to say it. No other way to describe it. Crossroads of future possibilities are ghosting within his head in the split-parts of seconds. Family and remorse and pain and sorrow and hope and connection. He brushes them all aside.  
Only Jaskier matters now. Only he is important.  
“You're pregnant.”  
There. The following silence is harsh and harrowing.  
Jaskier is quiet, and so is Geralt as he takes him in. The bard opens his mouth in bewilderment but nothing comes out and he closes it again. Geralt sees everything, every possible emotion that dances over his face as he tries to understand what Geralt just told him. Confusion and fear. Realization and pain. And finally acceptance.  
“Oh.” is all Jaskier can manage to bring out.  
Oh, indeed. Geralt doesn't know what else to say, so he squeezes his hand. They don't say anything for what feels like an eternity. They don't look at each other. Geralt isn't sure how long they spend like this, each one lost in their own mind and thoughts. Maybe minutes, maybe even hours.  
Jaskier breaks the silence, his tone laced with detachment.  
“Have you made a decision?”  
“My decision is to side with your decision.” Geralt squeezes his hand again, trying to offer as much comfort and reassurance through the gesture as possible, and Jaskier looks up.  
“And what is my decision?”  
“You will have to tell me.”  
Jaskier nods and they are silent again.

Geralt leaves the room after a while to inform Ursa. The healer only pushes him aside through the door, effectively shutting him out. He hears whispered words of a conversation through the wood but doesn't concentrate on it. He has no right to intrude on privacy, even the privacy of Jaskier. He sits in a far corner of the main hut and stares at Ursas collection of displayed herbs and remedies readied in bottles and pots. He feels empty. He feels lost.  
The door opens and Ursa steps out.  
“He wants to talk to you.” she informs him and sets back to her work behind the small counter, grinding leaves into a fine powder. Geralt gets up and enters the small room again.  
Jaskier lies in the bed, quiescently and contemplating staring at the ceiling; his hands rest on his abdomen. He acknowledges Geralts presence without looking at him, only humming in response when Geralt sits down on the small chair.  
“Ursa informed me about my injuries and how I should best heal,” he tells Geralt and closes his eyes.  
“And she informed me about this,” he lifts his hand and gestures at his belly before letting it rest there again.  
“Basically told me what she told you. She's no midwife, pregnancies are not her area of expertise.” Jaskier sighs.  
“You said you want me to choose what happens, but whatever it is, it will involve you. I don't know yet, might take a few days.” Geralt nods in response, of course he will give time for this. But when Jaskier doesn't open his eyes to look at him, he lets out a soft growl to signal his acceptance. Jaskier hums in response.  
“Geralt?”  
“Yes?”  
“I'm tired. But tomorrow I want to leave. Ursa knows. She said its okay.”  
“We will do what you want, Jaskier.”  
“Thanks.”  
Geralt sits awake at his bedside for another night. And again, Geralt can smell the approaching rain.

Jaskier wakes early in the morning, before the break of dawn and Geralt would have teased him about such unfamiliar behavior that would usually allow them to get on the road and travel faster. This is different. Discomfort lingers about both of them as Geralt watches Jaskier latch his high boots and breeches. When he stands, he swoons and Geralt offers his arm and shoulder in support but Jaskier doesn't take it. It gnaws inside him.  
Ursa is awake as well, offering them one last meal before they head out. Geralt pays her generously, for everything and all. She takes it, while her lingering gaze of a world-weary women judges both of them and sends them of with only a few quietly muttered words. Silently, Geralt wishes her a good future as the door of the hut closes behind them.  
They trot through the market place as the traders start to set up their stands, but they pay them no attention. Only a few traders wish them a good morning but otherwise they are ignored as well. They make their way towards the inn undisturbed. The entire way over Jaskier shivers and has trouble to walk in a straight line, but each offer of Geralt to help and support him is only met with a shake of his head.  
Roach nickers as Geralt lets her into the stable, the mare is obviously annoyed by the uncommon handling of the past few days. First being forced to speed towards the city again with two men on her back and then waiting around the hut of a herbalist with little matching accommodation for a horse. Geralt will repay her abundance of patience for him and Jaskier with a bucket full of apples. They enter the inn, the keeper only giving them a short nod as he sees them.  
“I'll get us a room,” Geralt says.  
“Do you want to eat something?” he asks when Jaskier doesn't respond.  
“We just had breakfast.” the bard mutters without looking at him.  
“You must still heal and need energy.”  
“I'm not hungry, Geralt. I just want to get a room and lie in a bed.” And with that it is settled for now. The innkeeper takes their coin and shows them the room upstairs, informing them about lunch and dinner. Jaskier isn't listening, staggering to the bed in the corner and dropping himself on it, trying not to jostle his tender shoulder too much. Yet pain shoots down his entire arm and into the tips of his fingers. He groans and adjusts himself only now noticing Geralt looming over him like a guardian.  
“You don't have to stand there and watch me.” he slowly trails his voice in a melancholic tone. “In fact, I would prefer if you would give me room to think.”  
Geralt grunts and moves back to the door.  
“You want me to leave you alone? I can do some shopping in the market. You want anything?” he asks before leaving the room, seeing now that Jaskier has turned his back to him.  
“No.”  
Only when Geralt has left and he can no longer hear his steps on the wooden flooring, Jaskier is able to close his eyes and whisper to himself.  
“I don't even know what I want right now.”  
In the calmness and quiet of the room he drifts off into sleep, his dreams distorted and full of past memories mixing with uncertain future possibilities. He can't connect a single tought.

Geralt returns hours later, in fact, hours after his shopping had been done. Instead he had loitered around the different stands and shops until people had glared at him and whispered behind his back about him. Only when one of the guards had rather kindly asked him to leave he had opted to return to the inn. Then he had loitered in the stable at Roaches side, starting to fulfill on his promise of the morning and feeding her plenty as well as brushing her coat and fur until it shined.  
She neighed and nickered as he combed through knots in her mane and untangling them with his fingers. He cleaned her hoofs and horseshoes, flickering away pebbles and dried dirt. And when that was done he fixed and patched up holes and loose threads in the saddle and under-cloth.  
He did anything to keep his mind occupied and blank.  
And then he was done. Now he just sits in the stable on a bale of straw, his fingers twitching and fickle. He can't think of anything else to do now that doesn't somehow involve Jaskier.  
And as if they were given a cue, his thoughts spiraled and danced in his mind and inner eye.  
A desperate sigh escapes him.  
Roach sniffs at his ear and nibbles his hair, like she is trying to draw his attention elsewhere. It doesn't work and she stops after a short while, instead focusing again on the few apples Geralt has placed in her box.  
Finally Geralt sighs and looks at the horse, giving her a searching stare.  
“What do you think, Roach? A child. Me and Jaskier and a child. If people thought we were an odd combination before, what will they think then?” The mare snorts in response as Geralt reaches for one of the apples, letting his fingers dance across the red ripe skin and inspecting it.  
“Didn't even think it was possible with being a witcher and all,” his voice trails, completely lost in thoughts.  
“I mean, its not like I don't want it. But Jaskier-”  
His fingers twist and pull at the stem of the apple as Geralt mindlessly plays with it.  
“We never talked about family or future. I don't even know what he wants.” His eyes lower to the dirt floor, strewn with dried mud, old straw and the occasional pieces of fodder that hasn't been snatched up by mice yet.  
“And if he doesn't want the child, I don't even know if he will want to continue traveling with me. If this wasn't too much.”  
The thought is filled with somberness and a strange fear of loss. These few days could possibly be the last of their relationship, however strange and peculiar it was. Jaskier was his very connection to people outside of a few chosen others. Yet, Jaskier was the only true human out of them that he wasn't somehow connected with through magical circumstances or the everlasting hands of fate. Jaskier being with him freely, choosing such a life for himself and settling with Geralt on his own accounts, that was something truly special to him.  
And now he has to face the reality of losing this. Something he doesn't even know if he ever truly appreciated it correctly.  
Geralt only bites his lip and hands Roach her apple. Her snout brushes against his ear as if trying to give him reassurance. It only partly helps.  
The smell of rain and thunder lingers all around him.

It is late in the afternoon when he returns to their room. Jaskier is asleep on the bed, stock-still except for the soft rising and falling of his chest. Geralt dares to come closer and look at him.  
Dark circles have formed under his eyes, despite being asleep for the better of two days and if he looks closely he can make out the dried trails of a few shed tears. His hair is a tangled mess and Jaskier will hate it when he wakes up and sees himself in a mirror. Him not taking care of his appearance is a certain way to determine how the bards mind is occupied with something profound.  
Geralt can only hope that Jaskier will soon reach a conclusion and that they will face it together.  
He hesitantly rests his hand on the bards head and strokes the muddled bangs softly with his thumb out of his face. He feels his forehead and can sense the heat of a low fever rising from the skin. Ursa had said so much, but also not to worry.  
He tries not to worry. It still eats him up inside.  
They will eat soon. Jaskier must eat soon. But he still doesn't wake.  
Geralt sighs and leaves to order dinner from the innkeeper. He returns with two bowls of stew and sets them on the small table in the room. He doesn't eat his share. After spending so much time in Jaskiers company it seems wrong to eat without him, even if he is only resting at an arms-length away. Instead he waits. And waits. And waits.

Jaskier only awakes long after the sun has set. It is slow, he barely shifts, only stretching and tensing his limbs in small movements all accompanied by groans. Geralt sits patiently at his side but dares not to touch him. His eyes open, glassy and glazed over with fever and pain. Despite sleeping for hours Geralt can still sense a lingering tiredness in the bard. Humans heal so slow. They take so much time.  
Jaskier looks around with an aimless gaze until it settles on Geralts face, yet his expression remains blank, almost empty. It doesn't match with the usually so animated and chipper bard Geralt has traveled with. It sits like a rock in his stomach to see him like this.  
“How do you feel?” he asks when Jaskier makes no attempt to speak.  
“Like a pile of shit that got run over by a cart pulled by two-dozen oxen.”  
In any other situation Geralt would have responded with a snarky remark or an uplifting comment about the bard being a rather perfumy and good-looking pile of shit that got stuck to a witchers boots and couldn't be scraped. But not now. It would only serve to push already strained tensions far enough for a fight. They do not need that. They got bigger problems to solve. Hopefully.  
Instead Geralt hands Jaskier the bowl of stew with a characteristic “hm” followed by a silent instruction to eat. Jaskier doesn't accept the bowl, holding his hand up.  
“I'm not hungry.”  
Geralt doesn't believe him and as if on cue Jaskiers stomach gives a loud and deep rumble. The bard flushes in embarrassment as his body so blatantly betrays his lie.  
“Okay,” he protests and slowly rises to sit against the headboard of the bed. “But I really don't have an appetite, so you know.”  
They eat in silence, no small talk, no questions what Geralt has done today or seen in the market. No discussion of caught up chatter from townsfolk. Geralt finds it unsettling, but he says nothing. When they are done he takes the bowls and puts them on a small sideboard. He doesn't know what to say, how to start; if Jaskier even wants to have the upcoming and inevitable discussion yet.  
“Would you like something warm to drink?” he finds himself asking instead.  
“I can get you a tea.”  
“The kitchen is most likely already closed.” he hears Jaskier mumble in answer.  
“It's dark outside. Slept through another day, didn't I?” He doesn't look at Geralt, instead fixing the rooms window with a stiff stare. Geralt gives no response as he walks back over and settles himself on the mattress. He looks at the bard and takes him in, his rigid face and tired eyes. Geralt can't remember if he has ever seen Jaskier looking to lost and insecure. So apathetic, yet overwhelmed. Geralt is revolted by his own inability to help Jaskier in any way right now. Nothing he can think of to say, nothing he can think of to do.  
And yet he wants to act. He wants to help. He wants to offer Jaskier the safety and comfort he deserves, they deserve. But for now being close is all he can offer.  
They don't talk.  
They don't move.  
They sit still and stare into the night sky that presents itself through the grimy window over the back alley of a small inn in an insignificant town somewhere in the outskirts of the land between anywhere and nowhere on an old bed that creaks and squeaks with a lumpy mattress and a scratchy sheet in a room that has never been cleaned thoroughly. It's not even a particularly nice night, too few stars and only a pale crescent moon that is constantly disrupted by grayish clouds.  
They only sit and stare into the nothingness. The desolation of two lonely souls trying to find each other and failing.

Geralt is ready to ask if he should leave again, if he rather should spend the night in the stable with Roach or if Jaskier wishes him to stay, to be touched and comforted – even if he has no clue how to do such a thing. Geralt isn't even able to discern what he wants himself, what would help him right now.  
When Jaskier finally speaks he is grateful. But he is not speaking yet.  
Only letting his body slowly fall against Geralts chest, nudging his head under his chin and breathing a soft sigh of exhaustion. Geralts arms encircle him in the idea of a hug, but not a full one, more abstained and cautious, fearing it is not welcome. Jaskier makes no move to push his hands away as they rest besides the curve of his hips.  
“I never thought I ever would have to make a decision like this,” Jaskier starts as his hands carefully cup his lower abdomen.  
“I don't even know what I want anymore.” he whispers. “It's too soon, it is simply too real.” He pushes his face in the crook of Geralts neck and he can feel how Jaskiers breath hitches against his skin.  
“I thought I had more time to think about future, about family, about me and you.” There are wet drops dripping down Geralts throat as Jaskier quietly weeps into his frame.  
“Geralt, I'm scared. I don't know what to do, where I should go.”  
Geralt closes his arms around him, hugs him tights and pulls him even closer. Nuzzles his nose into the soft hair, breathing him in and rocking him slightly.  
“Whatever you say, Jaskier, whatever you do – I'm here for you.”  
Jaskier sinks deeper into his arms, his body slack with an unusual weakness. His warm breath ghosts over Geralts collarbone. It gives him goosebumps, but not of the good kind. His fingers dance across Jaskiers arms, tracing them up and down in fond caresses. Jaskier melts more into him as if he only wants to hide from the world and himself in the witchers strong arms. And Geralt gives him shelter for the rest of the night until the early morning.

“Please eat something.” Geralt begs him. Jaskier only halfheartedly picks his porridge with the wooden spoon, scoops up the pieces of dried fruit in it and lets it flop back down into the bowl.  
“I'm not really hungry. I feel sick.” He declares.  
“Morning sickness?” Geralt immediately regrets his words as Jaskier visibly tenses up.  
“No,” He says after a moment and pushes the bowl away. “I simply just don't feel like eating. Everything just seems to ruin my appetite.”  
Geralt nods. Just a few weeks ago he has been teasing Jaskier about his ravenous hunger and his slightly swollen belly. He could smack himself for ignoring the now obvious signs. If possible he would beat his past self up, but that won't solve anything. Dwelling on the past never solved anything. Now all he can do is to be there and support. So he tries.  
“Maybe some fresh air will help,” Geralt starts. “You feeling up for a walk?”  
Jaskier scoffs. “So you can whir and buzz around me? Pointing out every pebble and puddle on the street so I don't trip?” But Jaskier sighs in resignation and rises from the chair.  
“My legs weren't injured, so might as well put them to use.” His lips perk up with an ambivalent smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but for now Geralt his happy to see something different in his face than the constant inerplay of sorrow, apathy and fright.

Geralt tries his best not to fuss around, restricting himself to simply walking besides Jaskier and ignoring the small gasps he lets out at times. They walk the main street of the small town and feign interest in the stands, but never stay long enough to draw one of the vendors into a talk. Most avert their eyes directly when catching a glimpse at Geralt, fear and prejudice of the witcher obvious in their faces. Today, Geralt is glad for this.  
They reach the outskirts of the town, the space between individual houses becoming broader until only idle acres and fields with crops remain in front of them. The street twists and turns into the surrounding hills and forest, brick road turning into cobblestone turning into gravel. Idyllic and picturesque, if only their minds wouldn't be so clouded.  
“I need a break,” Jaskier says and moves towards an old gated fence besides the road. “Let's rest for a moment.” Geralt grunts in response and follows. The wood is slightly damp and creaks treacherously but manages to withstand the weight of two grown man.  
Geralt is restless. He should say something, anything. But all feels just wrong when he catches glimpses at Jaskiers unemotional countenance. His face so blank, his eyes so empty and his mouth pressed into such a thin line.  
The sky above them is clear for now, but Geralt can feel the storm approaching. He bites his tongue in anticipation, balls his hands into fists. He will face it, all of it. And he waits for the silence to break.  
“It is nice here,” Jaskier finally speaks up. Geralt tenses.  
“Town is too small for my taste, and too quiet. But it is nice.” The bards eyes roam over the hillside. “It is pretty. Makes you think, what you want from life.” Jaskier looks up, his eyes resting on Geralt. Intense, but missing their usual spark, his deep-running joy; and it just draws Geralt more in. He can't look away now, he doesn't dare. His mouth is dry, his tongue more heavier than normal. Jaskiers eyes gaze into his soul in desperation.  
“What do you want from life, Geralt?”  
“I'll do what-”  
“No, Geralt,” There is an eerie calm and collectedness in Jaskiers voice. His eyes unstrained and not breaking from Geralts face.  
“I don't want to know what you'll do. I want to know what you want.”

What do you want?  
His lips crack open, but the words keep escaping his mind. He feels unable to form a thought. The storm breaks loose and it feels like everything is screaming at him at once. Thoughts rush so fast and fleetingly that he can't grasp a single one clearly. His mind rushes, his ears ring, his sight blurs until all that remains is Jaskiers face staring at him in calm expectation.  
What do you want?  
He never truly asked himself this question. It never came to mind. It never was important. Not to him or anyone else.  
He wasn't created to live life.  
His path was preset by destiny as a witcher, a hunter, a beast slayer, an abomination, a monster created to kill other monsters. To hunt and to kill and to devastate and to destroy-  
\- he has never lived to want for something, to create something.  
Especially not another life fully depending on him. Something that would seek him out on its own free will, something that would know him since birth and before, something that would love unconditionally. Or someone.  
Someone like Jaskier. And something that Jaskier was currently carrying right under his heart, beating almost in unison and listening without real comprehension yet, but still understanding. Something resilient and demanding, to be there for the rest of their lives and possibly longer.  
What do you want, witcher?  
What could he possibly give?  
He can't promise true safety. He can't foresee the future. His life is dangerous, without a steadfast home, without a promise that he can always offer food for every day or shelter against the elements or protection from beasts and animals alike.  
But he can offer the promise to try as best as he might. To give unconditional love in return for all his countless shortcomings. To be there, for the rest of his days, however numbered they might be. At least he is capable of that.  
And he is more than willing.  
What do you want, Geralt?  
The emotions he has so carefully locked deep inside, buried under the years of trials and training, abstain and unworthiness, rear their ugly heads. They start to crawl up from within him, tearing their way up through his chest high into his mind, breaking free and barreling him like a torrent.  
He doesn't know what to do with them, how to express them. How they eat his soul away with despair and distress and desire and longing. How the fear of regret in the face of the unknown is throwing him right into the clutches of anxiety. How he sees each and every single aspect of his inferiority when simply looking at the bandages that peek out from Jaskiers clothes. How he wishes for this outlook of hope and blessing in his selfish absorption and as a unspoken promise to always stay by Jaskiers side. How he craves to give so much while only being able to offer so seemingly little in return.  
What do you want, Geralt of Rivia?  
He wants Jaskier.  
He wants him and him alone and everything that Jaskier can possibly give him. A voice to speak for him and defend him against unjust judgment. A shoulder to rely on at the end of each day, to be in his back and wait patiently for his return. A song to lift the mood on gloom days and bring joy with so little effort. An understanding mind, a likewise thought shared between two with no words necessary.  
And how he wants to return it.

A warm hand comes to rest on his temple, slowly trailing down the side of his face. The tender touch of a hand promising a future together and so much more. He leans into it. His heart hammers in his chest, his legs feel weak, his breath shudders.  
“Has such a simple question broken you, Geralt?”  
There is nothing simple about such a question, such emotions. Jaskiers eyes rest on him, locked in each others gaze. And Geralt can see it now, can see the same storm raging in Jaskiers mind. The same fear and sadness, the same longing and desire to stay at each others side, come what may. He cups the bards hand, averting his eyes and closing them, letting his fingers gently dance across it and slowly moves it to his lips.  
“Jaskier,” His voice feels so hushed, yet intense.  
“I promise you that I'll do whatever you ask of me” he presses a soft kiss into the palm of Jaskiers hand, caressing the skin with his lips and feeling the calloused fingertips of the bard against the stubble on his cheek. “But for what it's worth, I'd wish for you to keep the child.”  
He said his piece, offered himself up to Jaskier. He feels raw and ravished by his wants, his desires.  
He is hesitant to look at Jaskier again. The slow and soft patting at his cheek has stopped, but Jaskier is still so close. He feels the radiating warmth of his body, the subtle smell of his perfume, hears the hitched gasp after his confession.  
A second hand comes to rest on his other cheek, cradling his face and he feels of Jaskiers thumb draws small circles over his skin.  
“Geralt, please look at me.” And he does. He could never deny such an affectionate and humble request. He opens his eyes and Jaskier only smiles.  
Geralt can see the spark that returned to his eyes, making them shine with love, compassion and hope. He hadn't even realized how much he missed it over the past two days. But now its back and he could howl in joy. How much he missed this all, how stupid he was for never noticing it truly before. He will never let this spark go again.  
Geralt pulls him closer, pulls him flush against himself, arms looping in his neck. Warm and secure and sanguine. Their faces line up, their lips almost touching, stealing each others breath. A hand combing through the hair at the back of his head. He does the same, grabbing a fist full of the soft hair and gently pulling him even closer.

And finally they kiss.

It is more passionate and sweet than their usual kisses, with a more ravenous hunger of lust and searing fervor than before. Jaskiers lips are smooth and hot and contrast so well with his more firm and slightly charred lips. But Jaskier licks and bites at them nonetheless, nibbling and begging for entrance with his tongue. Geralt lets him in.  
He can't tell anymore how long they kissed. When they part Jaskiers lips are swollen and red. Geralt bets his look the same. And the taste still lingers on them.  
Jaskier buries his face into the crook of Geralts neck, clasping the hem of his shirt in his back. His breath still raspy and short, but gets more and more steadier. A whisper ghosts over his ear, small and peaceful, making the hairs on his arms and neck stand up and shiver.  
“Of course I want to keep the baby, Geralt.”

It feels like a roaring thunder over his head, hard rain slamming into the ground, unearthing rocks and turning stones in mudslides downwards hillsides into valleys. It should be restricting. Cutting off paths and making trails unusable. Drenching the clothes on ones very skin, making them cling to the body and weighing them down. Running into eyes and making it hard to see, hard to speak, hard to breath. And yet, nothing has ever felt so freeing and promising and uplifting and purging like the thunderstorm after an excruciating long drought. 

They are embracing in the hillside under the blue sky, hands running over bodies, hugs pulling them together and pushing apart for kisses. Giving quiet promises to each other; about protecting each other, supporting each other, helping each other. They can finally smile again, laugh again, find each other again like they did for the first time.

And on the inside, Geralts howls and dances in the rain in pure and endless euphoria and pulls Jaskier with him.

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I only wanted to write a short and fluffy story. And then it mutated into this.  
> (ಠ_ಠ)


End file.
